


Dance

by d__T



Series: Going Straight to Hell on Transcon 1 [2]
Category: Mad Max 1979, Mad Max Series (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:47:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d__T/pseuds/d__T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toecutter and Bubba meet for the first time. A gun is fired twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance

This is the first time they’ve done this dance, the steps unfamiliar together, yet performed with individual surety born from much preparation. But soon enough, they will step perfectly in time with each other, tuned to each other.

The first step: the meticulously cared for gun is suddenly in the bleach blond’s hands and he falls into an impeccable stance with the ease that only comes from practice. His finger lies along the trigger, prepared to incapacitate first, ask questions second, and execute third. Suspicious dark eyes watch the brawny curly stranger approaching him.

The second step: The stranger steps closer, making like he’s unfazed by the gun held steady at him from a range that the blond could not possibly miss from, unless he  _chose_  to miss the shot. He flexes his hands, wide knuckles scarred from brawling and fingers bearing the distinctive marks that brass knuckles leave behind. He’s close enough now, so far inside the blond man’s guard that he could take the gun from those clean steady hands if he wanted to.

The dance joined: scarred hand swiftly pushes the gun to the side so that any shot taken would go astray, hand settling with crushing force upon pale wrist and jacketed elbow coming down to take the other man’s arm from him. The shot fired a moment too late passes heart stoppingly close by his side before spraying dirt up behind him. He doesn’t flinch, not even as the blond goes straight for his face with his teeth.

The fourth step, taken together: The brawny man yanks his head back as teeth snap shut where his face just was. Only, the lunge left an opening and he finds an arm flung around his neck, pulling him close to the stranger he hadn’t shot. Then they’re falling, the booted leg hooked viciously behind his own pulling them over to land in the scraggly grass with a thud.

The fifth step, to choose the leader for the rest of the dance: now empty gun hand still gripped tightly and uselessly far away, the stranger’s other arm drops elbow first onto his sternum, a choking blow followed by a knee slammed up between his legs right into his crotch.

Reflexively, his body tries to curl up, but held down like he is, he chokes and spits helplessly as the stranger brings one hand in to grip his face, close enough for the curly mane to brush against him.

“It’s not  _safe_  to be alone out here like that.”

Then he rears back, releasing the man under him from his clutches and  _laughs_.

“You’re coming with me!”

He jams his knee up a little more, just see and feel the man convulse under him again. Point made, he rolls away to scoop up the dropped weapon and _that’s_ what pulls the black clad man from the dust. He snatches at it unsuccessfully as the other man rolls away again. It frustrates him that someone else is touching his gun and then a shot from his own gun lands between his own legs. This time, he flinches but is frozen but the sight of the other man drawing one blunt finger up the barrel of the gun to caress the sight.

Then, just as suddenly, the gun lands in his lap with a thud, barrel still warm from the shot and those hands. Mouth dry, he nods and puts the gun in its holster. He’s going with this strange man, he knows this now. He will follow this man, he tells himself, for a while.

“Name?”

“…Bubba. Yours?”

“Toecutter.” The man looks gleefully predatorily happy to have that name.

“…pleased to meet you.”


End file.
